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Zafira startled when the shopkeeper snatched the vial from the air with a smile. His teeth lengthened and sharpened, his nose rounded into a snout.
She blinked and he was human once more. A farce—this was no mortal man, but one who could shift between man and hyena at will. Suddenly, she understood the savage glow in his gaze, and the ancientness of Bait ul-Ahlaam.
He was a kaftar.
“Si’lah blood. Quite the treasure,” he observed. “The way of the forbidden often comes at too steep a price.”
Kifah rounded a display. Gone were her calm and caution. Anger and aggression rolled off her in waves. “I saw your collection, creature. You glean memories. You thieve people of their pasts in order to sell your wares.”
He trailed his gaze up Kifah’s bare arm and the tattoos that branded it. “I thieve no one. You wish to make a purchase, you must pay what is due.”
Memory gleaning was thievery. It meant taking a fragment of someone’s past and bottling it for an eager patron to experience. An intriguing trade, if it didn’t require the former to lose the memory, too.
“You can’t sell memories without magic,” Zafira said, confused. Only glean them. And if the bottles along th
e far wall were for memories, what purpose did the rest of his goods serve?
“As such, magic is on the mend,” he said lightly, lifting the tiny bottle with its silver markings.
Zafira stared at it. There was no part of her past that she wished to undo. Nothing she wanted to forget. Every moment of elation had made her who she was, and every moment that broke her down had only paved her path.
The shopkeeper sensed their reluctance, and he closed his hand around the vial. For once, Kifah had nothing to say.
“There won’t be a mend if we don’t have that vial,” Zafira said suddenly.
The kaftar stilled, canting his head like the animal he was. Kifah bored holes into Zafira’s skull.
“We met your kind on Sharr,” Zafira said. “They were cursed until we helped them. They fought for us. Knowing their death was guaranteed by sunrise, they fought for the Arawiya that was.”
Hope fluttered against her chest as the shopkeeper considered her.
“You are the Demenhune Hunter. A girl,” he said with some surprise.
A girl. Her heart sank.
“The rumors do you justice.”
Her eyes snapped to his, and falling like a fool for the appraisal in his tone, she asked, “Will you sell us the vial for anything other than a memory?”
She realized her mistake when his smile was all teeth.
“Give me the dagger, and the vial is yours. For Arawiya.”
No.
Laa.
Her heart and limbs and lungs caught in an iron fist, thought after thought racing through her. One: It’s only a dagger. Two: It’s not. Three: Baba.
Baba. Baba. Baba.
That was where she faltered and held.
One who sold memories and bargained blood from a Sister of Old would have no qualms stealing emotions. That was what her dagger was, wasn’t it? A blade forged of cheap steal, worthless except for what it held: love. Years of it. Barrels of it.
That was what the oddities in the shop were. If they weren’t coveted for what they were—the teeth of a dandan, ore from the depths of Alderamin’s volcanoes, enchanted artifacts—they were valued for what they contained. Love, anger, hate, confidence.
Memories, emotions, rarities acquired by ill means: This was what Bait ul-Ahlaam dealt in. That was why Seif had been reluctant to come here. Why the Silver Witch had been angry at the mere mention of its name.
